Another Year

Another Fucking Beautiful July

To My Wife…

Hello love. Hello raspy voice in my ear on any given morning. Hello sharpish editor of extraordinary talent.

It’s another fucking beautiful July. It’s been a year of years. I missed you the most at night, but you stopped showing up, and I guess that’s for the best. Sometimes during those morning moments in-between mundane tasks like shaving, you would come to me. I’d feel your arms wrap around my chest and your head resting upon my back. It didn't feel painful as the year went on.

Your talents were missed. Particularly the well-crafted talent of rewriting sentences over my shoulder as you rub my aching muscles while I sit frustrated at the lines on a page.

The fifth year begins, and here I am. And there you are. As you know, I actually accomplished something. I know you know. I've seen a project through to completion. It’s a project that would not have existed if you were still breathing. For that reason, among others, the accomplishment feels like a bittersweet symphony. Not a fair trade, but one I cannot waste energy arguing about with myself.

Writing is one of my coping mechanisms that remains intact for me. I know I would have your support, and we would spend a month celebrating the accomplishment if we could. Last July I asked you to show me the light if you knew where it was. Well, I spent a year moving forward much more than I spent standing still, and I think — sometimes — I can see the light now. After resisting for so long, I will enter an intensive rehabilitation programme to relearn how to shine the light more frequently and accept the darkness when the light cannot shine.

So this July can roll on. My great endeavour this month is not to mourn, but to celebrate. My accomplishment. Your life. Our love. Memories of my childhood friends. New memories with my nieces. The support of friends around me.

And the greatest gift to live now. Inside this moment.

I love you. I'm alive.